Something winged and dark has settled on the shoulder of my Muse and whispers lines like these to her, and she passes them on to me.

The Fast Dreams Always Get Away

I consulted the world-wide depression,
(the one that I helped make) and found
there was a still a peck in the crown
a small, black bead of hope in the eye,
of the girl who loved to stand on the edge
and count her bones, one by one,

but she always stopped at 27, took a breath,
and released herself into a fog of thought
and stirred bird nests, prickly demons all,
the kind who remember what it’s like
to roll with the thunder and flash
with lightning bolts, Zeus’s favorite,

his beard magnificent with worry and red
with rivers of blood that leaked from his lips
and sprouted like beast-thoughts from his back,
my own haunches furred and limitless,
the witches of my own making pressing
their bones in and letting it all ride on black.